On her return from her walk at about six, Miss Hall, very nervous but very determined, had asked to be allowed to speak to Herr Rendalen. She gave him the letter directly he came in. He took it, read it, held it a little way from him, and began to laugh; and when she took it seriously, he laughed still more, quite uncontrollably at last. Ten minutes later he received a note from Miss Hall, in which she informed him that she should leave by the next steamer. On this he rushed off for his mother, whom he found at last in the cow-house. He explained the whole matter contemptuously to her, declaring that Miss Hall must be mad. Fru Rendalen at once went to her. Miss Hall was greatly exasperated; she cried, and gave confused, hasty explanations, while Fru Rendalen pulled off her spectacles, and rubbed and rubbed them; she could not comprehend it in the least. Perhaps, if we were to talk English, she thought; but it all remained as obscure as ever. Plainly and shortly, what was she angry about? Why did she wish to go? What had happened? What redress did she demand?
She demanded that the culprits should be _punished_.
Nothing more than that! They both set off to the boarders' room, which was now empty; they began to search through the exercise books, portfolios, bookshelves; they wished to find out who it was who was so abominable as to copy Rendalen's handwriting. From thence they went into the class-rooms. That of the senior class stood just as it had been left; for the cleaning day for this room was Thursday, and the evening sweeping had not yet been done. There they carefully collected all the bits of paper which had been thrown away, straightened them out, and examined them; they peeped into exercise books, lesson books, and desks. They must find out who the unhappy person was who imitated Rendalen's handwriting.
_They all did it!_
As soon as the fact became clear that every senior girl in the school had been occupied with _Rendalen_ and _Rendalen_, and again _Rendalen_, Miss Hall gave in; at last they both left the schoolroom--neither of them said a word to the other.
Miss Hall never said anything more about it. But Fru Rendalen talked it over with Karl Vangen. His discourse on Monday had for its subject how wrong it was to do to others, what they would not like others to do to them. This was often the case with young people, "who found great pleasure in discovering the weakness and tender points of others, and playing upon them."
The four dare not look up, but they gave side-glances at the drawing mistress, who chanced that day to be sitting near the laboratory table, facing the others. She rested her long arms on it. Her hands toyed with something standing there, which she looked at intently; but tear after tear rolled down her cheeks, without her making an attempt to dry them.
She was quite absent.
All four girls noticed it, and when at the third recreation she was still inconsolable and cried as much as ever. Nora could bear it no longer, but drew her into one of the rooms, and with her arms round her neck whispered, "Pardon, pardon, pardon:" she did not say for what.
They gave each other a confidential hug--regret, sympathy, shamefacedness all mingled together. The poor girl, whom they had befooled out of her most precious secret, was comforted at last by such boundless repentance, such thorough comprehension, such heartfelt devotion.
The same day Tora and Tinka heard what Nora had done; they wanted to do the same, but she forbade them; the poor girl must not on any account know that there was more than one who knew her secret.
Karen Lote was ill; Rendalen had to take her place, and give some of his work to Miss Hall. All three felt that Karen Lote must not be approached by any one.
How could they have thought of anything so disgusting as what they had done! And that, too, in the midst of serious discussions on woman's position, on woman's honour and responsibility.
Milla would not talk to the others; at school she held aloof, and when any one went to see her at home, her door was fastened. They all felt as though a storm were brewing.
That Milla should hold back from them as though _they_ were the guilty ones and not she, Nora would not endure; one day, therefore, they all surrounded her, and asked for an explanation. Milla was offended and tried to get away, but it did no good. She then told them that they had led her into doing what was not right, and she would have nothing more to do with it. The only answer she got was from Nora's great eyes, but she reddened under them. Of course she had taken part in what had been done, she did not deny it; but she did not wish to feel as ashamed of herself again as she had done during the last few days. The others asked if she thought they had been less ashamed than she?
Milla now told them, with a slight air of superiority, that in her first fright at Karl Vangen's discourse, she had asked her father if she might accompany him when he went to the South German Baths. He had consented with great pleasure. She could not draw back now, they were to start in a few days.
At first, all the friends felt Milla's coldness in having proposed to go away without telling them. But Milla now felt this herself, for she altered her demeanour from that moment, and tried to do away with the impression. It was _she_ now who was most amiable about everything.
When the drawing mistress appeared in a very pretty cloak and hat, without any one being able to find out who "the kind friend" was from whom she had received them, it was at once clear to the three friends that they came from Milla. She denied it certainly, but that was all the nicer of her. So the short resentment changed on both sides to a closer friendship during the few days that she still had with them. Her father gave a "farewell dinner," the great event at which was the unveiling of a cake, on the top of which four sugar girls held each other with fingerless hands as they danced round a red flag with "Emancipation" on it; round the plinth was written "The Society." But derision was useless. This same Society gave a farewell entertainment to Milla the next day. All good spirits hovered over this, their last meeting, with its many short speeches, its music and songs--over its whole tone.
A girl of a serious turn of mind recalled that all the pleasure that they had had together during their school year had been begun beside Fru Engel's grave; it was closing with Milla's farewell entertainment.
Milla was touched, quite overwhelmed; she declared that she was altogether unworthy, she did not deserve the kindness which they showed her; she was not all they thought her.
Tora came up and embraced her, and they all felt that this was genuine.
Tora was grateful for the happiest days of her life; she whispered this to Milla, which had a good effect. They ended by seeing Milla home; she took Tora's arm. "Bad times are beginning for me," sobbed Tora.
"But I shall come back again, Tora."
Tinka scolded her for her extravagant way of speaking, it was making the whole thing into a caricature and an absurdity; but this was not the first time that Tora had done so.
When they said good-bye before Milla's door, Tora ran after her up the steps and into the hall; she was never satisfied. When inside she took out a box which Milla knew at once--it contained her one ornament; she had inherited it from her uncle, who had brought it in his youth from California. It was some pieces of rough gold made into a heavy chain, a beautiful piece of work; she pressed it into Milla's hand; she had never worn it herself. But Milla would not think of taking it from her, she did not know how she could justify herself to her father if she were to do so; she refused it decidedly, coldly at last, so that Tora was vexed and ran off. But Milla fetched her in again, held her tightly in her arms, and kissed her. Did she not believe that Milla realised what a great thing it was which she wished to do? But it was a matter of conscience for Milla to say no. They must not part in this way; Tora should stay with her, she should stay the night there. And it was so settled. When girls are really fond of each other, they love to sleep together.
The others, who had remained outside, waited a while. As Tora did not rejoin them, they walked on a little way; they were annoyed with her.
They all returned, however, and came quietly through the garden-gate and past the office. A little while afterwards the two friends up in the bedroom heard a subdued chorus of girls' voices under the window, led by Tinka's contralto: they sang "Sleep in peace."
The curtain was half raised; they saw two figures in white; two heads--one dark, one fair-looked, nodding and laughing, out.
The whole school was down at the customhouse the next day; Fru Rendalen, all the teachers, male and female, every one--with the exception of Anna Rogne, who had not been at the meeting the previous day.
There was universal crying, and kissing, and admiration over Milla's travelling dress. The little ones thought they must join in; they could not cry, but they could kiss. First one little mouth was offered, then two, then five. At last they all insisted on being kissed by Milla, and then sprang back tittering.
The stewardess had all the vases in the cabin, and some dishes as well, filled with flowers. She really toiled over them. Tora, her eyes red with crying, had come with Milla and Consul Engel, and had been the object of all the latter's attentions, but she now kept quite in the background. Milla had to look for her to press her hand for the last time, to give her a last kiss. As the steamer swung round and left the quay, the slender black figure waved her handkerchief to her friends, her veil, which had become loosened, waving with it. In a moment the whole quay was white; the little ones in front, the elder ones behind them, all waved their handkerchiefs. From the steamer, it looked like the foam from a waterfall dashing down into the sea.
CHAPTER II
IN THE DOVECOTE
One morning in the gymnasium, when the senior class was practising rather reluctantly because the weather was splendid, and two panes were open in the big window that looked towards the mountain, letting the air pour in, laden with the scent of trees and flowers;--one morning in the gymnasium, just as Miss Hall had joined them, and had, as usual, interrupted the ordinary practice by taking away a few of the pupils for special exercises;--one morning in the gymnasium, when, as the result of all this, some of the girls had gone over to the window for a moment to give a glance at the hundreds of fruit-trees in full blossom, whose dense masses like an amphitheatre covered the opposite hillside with a single thick crown;--one morning in the gymnasium, when these same girls could not utilise the moment as fully as they wished, because a number of impertinent young trees had that year shot up in such a marvellous manner, that it was impossible to see the glory of the hillside, except where these young trees allowed it; nay, worse still, the trees attracted the bees from the hives on the right, and they were more impertinent still, for they buzzed in at the open window, and frightened the girls when they were trying to see out between the trees;--one morning in the gymnasium, just as all those small labourers in the garden, who in lieu of steel spades, hoes, or forks, use their own small legs, who begin their work at sunrise so as to end betimes, working by no forced contract, but also with no supervision or inspection, through the whole summer and autumn, they and their wives and children feeding at Fru Rendalen's expense, friends with all, except the cat;--yes, one morning in the gymnasium, just when all these tiny workers--oh, hundreds of them--gathered from all parts, rising high in the air to settle down again and hide themselves in the bushes in every direction, the girls stood looking on in wonderment.
All at once the trees in the wood bowed their heads, and deeply bowed those to the left, in front of the garden, while sand and seeds whirled up in a menacing cloud; a sudden squall from inland had come over the hill, and without warning drove across from right to left. Almost before it had reached the garden it was no longer the trees, but the wind which possessed the blossom; every single petal of every opening flower was lifted up, strewn far and wide, and carried away lighter, more lively than the snowflakes, for these are attracted by the earth.
Millions and millions of flower wings--a flashing, whirling atmosphere, as of white butterflies, through which patches of green appeared like islands in a sea of cloud, like islets in a mirage.
The girls screamed with delight, shouted, and clapped their hands, all exclaiming as this marvel was driven gleaming across the garden.
From the wood came a darker shower in pursuit of it, following the same course; it soon reached the place where the glittering petals had passed; its track was narrower, but its rush heavier and more rapid.
The girls rushed towards the great door, which was half open; they wanted to follow the bright moving mass, the fugitives from the fruit-trees. They forgot that they were in gymnasium dress--besides, at the back of the house it did not matter; they screamed, they jumped.
Just then the door was pushed right open from outside; on the steps stood a young man in white trousers and a naval uniform coat and cap.
He laughed and bowed, he bowed and laughed. It was Niels Furst.
Behind him, down in the courtyard stood Kaja Grondal, who wore a light hat and carried a violet parasol. She looked remarkably smart. She laughed too.
"Is not Elisa here?" asked Furst. No one in either of the senior classes was called Elisa, no one knew any Elisa in the whole school.
"No, not Elisa," he said; "Olava!" There was no Olava in either of the classes. "Olava?" No one knew any Olava in the whole school. He was sure that they all took it for a joke. He looked at them in their gymnasium dress, turning from one to another. He had both hands full of flowers, he had to put the ones he held in his right hand against his breast and press them with his left arm when he wanted to raise his cap. Fru Grondal was carrying flowers as well; they had evidently just bought them, and having heard that the senior classes were at the gymnasium at that moment, he had wished to see them. "Pardon," he said; "perhaps she was called Petrea, or it may be that she was not here at all." He raised his cap, his light curls seemed to laugh with him, and the girls all laughed till the walls of the gymnasium re-echoed. He sprang down. Fru Grondal turned and went with him; as they passed round the corner he nodded back at them.
The laughter of the girls sounded round and round the lofty building.
They were most of them in a state of excitement, they kept running to each other, asking questions without waiting for an answer; if three of them were standing in a group, others joined them; if some were laughing more than the others, they all rushed in that direction. Two began to dispute, and the dispute increased; one or two more joined in, then several others, all of them at last: the dispute was about the disturber of the dovecote who had been at the door.
Tinka was one of those who was disputing. She was simply shocked at his shamelessness; she looked round for supporters. She thus caught sight of Tora, who was sitting on a bench by the door, as white as a sheet.
Miss Hall was attending to her. Tinka sprang across, calling as she did so, "What is the matter?" "What has happened?" Tora had continued her gymnastics by herself, for she had become an enthusiastic gymnast, and pursued a special system. As she was at the height of her practising, she caught sight, through the half-open door, of a pair of little birds which were flitting backwards and forwards about a bush. Was any one under the bush? Had they a nest there? Was it only their usual antics?
Then she saw Kaja Grondal's light dress come between her and the bush, a large bouquet and a parasol instead of the birds; a young man in naval uniform, with his hands full of flowers. She did not know him.
Kaja just then caught sight of her, and either Tora imagined it or she really did say, "There she is!" The officer looked at Tora and kept his eyes intently fixed on hers, his eyes both laughed and stabbed. Kaja Grondal tried to hold him back and then fell behind, but he kept advancing, did not even stop at the steps, but came up them and still on, without removing his eyes a single moment from hers. She could not move. The noise by the window, the squall, which lifted Fru Grondal's veil and threatened to turn her parasol inside out, the waving of the bushes, the whistling in the trees; she saw, she heard, but as if at a great distance. She could not properly understand it, she could not put it together; a strange weakness came over her, especially in her knees--they would not support her.
Just then the girls screamed out, and the whole group flew by to the door, while he pushed it quite open with his foot. She felt as though she were breathing fresh air, as though some one were supporting her trembling limbs; but so long as he stood there she could not go away, although she longed to do so; she _must_ stay.
It was not until after he had gone that she tried to find the bench, and only when she sat down did she begin to feel ill. She tried to struggle against the feeling; Miss Hall came to her, and now Tinka as well; and when Tinka asked what it was, firmly and decidedly, it helped her--she was able to cry. The others came running up, but they became quiet at the sight of the deadly white face. They did not ask a single question.
"She has been doing her gymnastics too violently," whispered Miss Hall.
"She does everything so energetically," added Nora kindly, sitting down beside Tora, and drawing her head towards her.
The others went away; Miss Hall asked them to do so. One could hear in the little room, where they changed their dress, the sound of their returning merriment--one heard them go away, group after group.